“Excuse me?”
“I saw someone leaving out the side door when I pulled into the lot.”
She stared at him in confusion, a part of her hoping he was joking. Ollie was a great guy, but he’d always been socially awkward. Sometimes it was hard to know when he was teasing. When he simply waited for her response, she glanced toward the brick building. There were three entrances. A main door in the front for the customers. A side door that led into the back of the dining room and into the kitchen. That was the entrance her staff used. It also served as an emergency exit for her restaurant and the door she usually used. She liked walking through the restaurant before heading into her apartment. Not only to check on her business, but to simply savor what she’d created. The door at the back of the building was wooden and rarely used.
“The old service door?” she demanded.
“Yeah.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I just assumed it was a friend who was staying with you.”
“Was it a guy?”
“I only caught a glimpse.”
“What was he driving?”
“I didn’t see. Whoever it was disappeared behind the building.” Belatedly sensing the tension humming around Wynter, Ollie frowned. “Should I call nine-one-one?”
Wynter hesitated. It was possible that Ollie had made a mistake. If he only caught a glimpse of someone, they might have been coming out of the employee door. The restaurant was closed, but one of her staff might have forgotten something.
Then again, did she really want to take the chance? Yeah, it was probably nothing, but what if someone had followed her from Pike?
She was still wavering between caution and courage when a familiar Jeep pulled into the lot.
Noah.
Relief crashed over her. It wasn’t that she needed a man to take care of her, but there was something about having Noah around that made her feel as if she could face any problem. It was like that from the beginning. He’d been the one she’d called to take her to her first high school dance after the boy who’d asked her to go had stood her up. And towed her out when she’d driven her car into a ditch in the middle of the night. And stood at her side when she’d gone to the city council to get the zoning she needed to open her restaurant.
Realizing that Ollie was waiting for her response, she shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m sure it must be one of my employees.” She forced the smile back to her lips. “Maybe you could return later to work on the freezer?”
“No problem.” He paused, regarding her with obvious concern. “Is everything okay, Wynter?”
Wynter swallowed a hysterical laugh. Everything was absolutely not okay. It hadn’t been okay since she’d opened that damned envelope.
“I’m fine,” she managed to mutter.
Ollie frowned, but he didn’t press her. Instead, he reached out to lightly touch her arm.
“Okay. You know where to find me.”
Turning away, Ollie headed for his van, waving a hand at Noah who was walking toward Wynter with his long, easy strides. There was the sound of an engine starting and Ollie driving away, but Wynter was focused on the man who was standing directly in front of her.
This morning he was wearing his uniform. The tan button-down shirt and dark slacks were crisply pressed and molded to his muscular body. His boots were polished and he had a weapon strapped around his lean waist.
He always had an air of authority, but the uniform emphasized it.
“Are you having work done?” he asked as he studied her with a searching gaze.
Wynter absently reached up to grab the long strands of her hair. The breeze was picking up, bringing with it a chill that easily cut through her sweater. So much for spring.
“He came to replace a part on the freezer but . . .” Her words died on her lips as a shiver shook her body.
Noah stepped toward her, easily sensing her anxiety. “What?”
“He said he saw someone leaving my restaurant by the back door when he pulled in.”
“Who?”
“He said he only caught a glimpse.”
“Stay here.”
Wynter didn’t argue. Noah had the training to deal with potential danger. Not to mention he was carrying a loaded gun. Jogging across the lot, Noah easily pulled open the service door and disappeared from view.
Damn, that door should have been locked.
Wynter retrieved her phone from her purse as she nervously paced the lot. She would give Noah five minutes to do a quick search of her apartment, then she was calling for backup.
Her thumb was on the screen, preparing to press 911, when the door opened and Noah was retracing his steps to stand next to her. His pace was steady, indicating that there hadn’t been anyone hiding inside, but there was a grim tightness to his face. Something was bothering him.
“Well?” she demanded.
“The door was unlocked.” He sent her a stern frown.
“Don’t give me that look,” she protested. “I always keep it locked, but it’s an old door. It wouldn’t take much to force it open.” She glanced toward her building. From the outside it looked the same as always. “Was anything disturbed?”
“No, but I still think you should call the police.”
Her heart missed a beat at his stark tone. “Why?”
“There was a note left on your bed.”
“What does it say?”
“Let the dead rest in peace.”
Wynter grunted, feeling as if she’d just been punched in the gut. She’d been hoping this was all a big mistake. That Ollie had seen one of her employees leaving the restaurant. Or maybe just a friend who was knocking on the door to see if she was home.
Now she had to face the reality that someone had broken in and snuck through her private space. They’d entered her bedroom. Another shiver raced through her. And they’d left behind a warning that was clearly connected to her mother’s death.
“Yeah,” she muttered, pressing her thumb against the screen of her phone. “Let’s call the police.”
* * *
The Stranger watched from the alley as the police car drove away. Such a fuss over a tiny note. That hadn’t been expected. Then again, it wasn’t a disappointment. Not while watching the flashing lights and worried expressions. Excitement pulsed in the air. Just like all those years ago.
A craving for more crawled through the Stranger. This was just a pale imitation of what had happened in Pike. That had been up close and personal. And intoxicating. What could be more thrilling than the pleading tears, the desperate screams, and finally the thunderous crack of a gunshot? And threaded through it all, the hysterical sobs of a child.
The Stranger relived the memories over and over during the past twenty-five years.
Now the familiar pleasure was threaded with an aching for more.
Perhaps ...
No. There were more important matters. The interruption this morning had revealed there were still loose ends that needed attention.
Personal attention.
* * *
Noah walked Chelle Simpson to her patrol car that was parked along the curb in front of Wynter’s restaurant to keep from being blocked in by the crowd of gawkers. The cop was around the same age as Noah, and they’d gone to college together at Iowa State. They’d also dated on and off. Chelle was nearly as tall as Noah, with black hair she kept short and velvet dark eyes. Her body had the solid muscles of an athlete and her features were more striking than pretty.
Noah had always been confused why they couldn’t go beyond the casual dates. They were both in law enforcement. They both loved the outdoors. They both played basketball on the weekends and often jogged the same routes in the morning.
It seemed a perfect match.
But neither one of them had ever pressed to make their relationship formal. And eventually they’d drifted apart.
Chelle had been the respondi
ng officer to the call that there’d been a break-in at Wynter Garden. Luckily. She might be one of Larkin’s youngest cops, but she was by far the best. Plus he knew she would listen. Not only to the facts of the break-in, but to what they’d discovered during their short visit to Pike.
That didn’t mean to say she would believe there was anything funky going on with Laurel’s death, but she wouldn’t dismiss them as crazy conspiracy theorists. Or insist that he keep his nose out of police business. Some of the older cops were fiercely territorial.
She listened in silence as he described the photo that had been left behind by Sheriff Jansen and the fire at Tillie Lyddon’s house, and the love letters that had led them to Drake Shelton’s house. Once he was done, she nodded and pulled open the door of her cruiser. Chelle wasn’t the sort of person who chattered. If she had something to say, she’d say it. Otherwise, she liked the power of silence.
“Is there any hope of discovering who broke in?”
“We’ve dusted for prints and I’ll send the note to the lab to see if they can give us any clues. I’ll have a chat with Oliver Wheeler to see if he can describe who he witnessed leaving the building.” She glanced around to the stores that lined Cedar Avenue. “I’ll also check to see if anyone has a camera that points in this direction.” Her tone indicated she wasn’t expecting to find anything that might be helpful. Noah didn’t blame her. Larkin didn’t have much crime and there was no need to have surveillance on an empty lot. “To be honest, there’s not much more I can do,” she admitted.
Noah nodded. It was what he’d been expecting. “Can you do any investigating into Laurel Moore’s death?”
She paused, as if considering his request. Chelle wasn’t the sort of woman who made empty promises. It was one of the things he liked best about her.
“I think there’s an interim sheriff in Pike,” she finally said. “I’ll contact the office and see if they’ll send the old files.” She raised her hand as his lips parted. “But there’s a possibility they won’t like having outsiders poking their noses into their jurisdiction. And it’s even more possible that if they do send the files, I won’t discover anything new.”
“I’d just appreciate you taking a look,” Noah told her.
“I’ll make sure a squad car does an extra drive-by to keep an eye on things.”
Noah smiled with genuine relief. He didn’t know what was going on. During the night he’d almost managed to convince himself they were overreacting. After all, they didn’t have any actual proof that her mother’s death had been anything but a tragic case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. This morning had destroyed that vague hope.
Whoever had left that note was warning Wynter to stop digging into the past. Whether it was because Laurel’s death hadn’t been a random crime, or because there was something else in the past they didn’t want discovered. He wasn’t going to leap to conclusions.
“Thanks, Chelle,” he murmured.
Chelle started to climb into the car, then, pausing, she glanced over her shoulder. “Wynter is pretty rattled. I’m not sure she should stay here alone.”
Noah agreed. Wynter was a sensible woman who was more than capable of taking care of herself. But the past couple of days had taken their toll. And now someone had broken into her home and left a threatening note. Even if she wanted to stay in the apartment, he would have done his best to change her mind.
“She’s packing a bag,” he said.
Chelle arched a brow. “Is she staying with you?”
“Her grandfather.”
“Ah.”
Noah studied his friend. “Ah?”
Her lips twitched. “Did you want her to stay with you?”
Yes. The word formed in his mind with shocking clarity. He’d hoped that she would suggest moving into his cabin so he could protect her. Not only because she trusted him as a friend, but because . . .
Because she wanted to be near him.
Noah swallowed a resigned sigh. The past couple of days had smashed through his stubborn pretense that Wynter was just a friend. In fact, he suspected there’d always been a part of him that knew he was just waiting for the right time to admit it, both to himself and Wynter.
Now was not the right time.
“I don’t want her to be on her own,” he told Chelle.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re going to get.”
“Fair enough.” Chelle slid behind the wheel of her cruiser. “Let me know if Wynter has any more unwanted visitors.”
Chapter 9
Wynter spent the afternoon scrubbing the rain barrels she used to water the vegetable beds in the greenhouses, along with repainting the compost container that held the fertilizer. She needed hard physical labor to keep herself from dwelling on the thought of someone creeping through her home. Perhaps the same person who killed her mother.
The mere possibility made her skin crawl.
It wasn’t until the shadows began to spread over the field where she’d built her greenhouses that she headed up the hill to the small white farmhouse with a slanted roof and a wraparound porch. Over the past hour the breeze had picked up, and with the dropping temperature it had gone from chilly to downright frigid.
Picking up her pace, Wynter scurried past the milk barn and detached garage. She paused long enough to wash her hands beneath the outside water pump before she climbed the steps to the porch.
Her grandpa lifted himself out of the wooden rocking chair where he’d been waiting for her, eying her with approval. “Well, at least you have some color in your cheeks,” he said.
Wynter grimaced. She’d grabbed a jacket and stocking hat before heading down to the field, but neither had been enough by the end of the day.
“I think it’s called frostbite.”
The older man snorted. Sander Moore was a short, reed-slender man who still had a thick mane of silver hair despite his seventy-nine years of age. His eyes were a piercing blue and his skin was perpetually ruddy. It was past five o’clock so he’d changed out of his overalls into a pair of slacks and button-down shirt. It was a ritual he performed every evening even though he’d lived alone since his wife died thirty years ago. He told Wynter that changing clothes was the only way a farmer knew the workday was over.
“Nonsense,” he chided. “Air isn’t good for you unless it’s brisk.”
She shivered. “Tell that to the people happily basking on the beaches in Florida.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft, are ya?”
Wynter turned to gaze at the rolling pastures that surrounded the farm. She loved the view. The house was built on the highest point of land, allowing her to see for miles despite the shadows that were creeping over empty fields and paddocks. Once this had been a bustling dairy farm, but over the years her grandpa had been forced to cut back. Not only because of finances, but without an heir who was willing to take over the bulk of the work, he’d grown too old and frail to continue.
“Maybe,” she murmured.
Sander moved to pull open the nearby door. “Come in. I have stew and hot rolls on the table.”
“Sounds good.”
They walked into the kitchen that hadn’t been renovated since the late fifties. The cabinets were painted lime green and hung at wonky angles as the house settled on the sagging foundation. There was a dip in the middle of the floor and the appliances had yellowed from white to a weird beige. Still, there was a homey comfort to the house that had been built by her great-great-grandfather.
They settled at the card table next to the fridge. He had a formal dining room, but the wooden table was buried beneath boxes of receipts, tax documents, and old magazines. Sander wasn’t a hoarder, but he found it hard to throw away anything he thought he might use later. Besides, when he was here alone he usually ate on a TV tray in the living room.
Wynter was buttering a hot roll when her grandpa asked the question that had no doubt been on his lips since she
arrived at the farm.
“Are you going to tell me what’s happened?”
She took a bite of the stew, ignoring the tough meat and potatoes that weren’t quite cooked through. Her grandpa had many fine qualities. Cooking wasn’t one of them.
“I’m not really sure,” she muttered.
Sander cracked open his beer. It didn’t matter if it was eighty degrees or eighty below zero. Her grandpa always had a beer with dinner.
“Man trouble?”
Wynter’s lips twisted. If only it was that simple. “Who has time for a man?”
“Good for you.” Sander lifted his bottle in a toast to her good sense. “A smart woman takes care of herself. No need to throw yourself away on some loser.”
Wynter chuckled. This man had been warning her since she was a young girl to avoid boys. “You never change.”
“Why would I change? I’ve muddled along just fine for seventy-nine years.” He put down the beer bottle and began to demolish his stew. Sander could eat more than a man twice his size. “Now tell me what’s on your mind.”
Wynter pushed away her bowl and absently nibbled on the hot roll. “First I have a few questions for you.”
“About what?”
“About my mother.”
Sander sent her a startled glance. Then he slowly lowered his spoon. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask.”
Wynter wasn’t sure either, but she had to ask someone. “Why not?”
“I’ve told you that me and Laurel didn’t often see eye to eye.”
That wasn’t exactly what he’d said. In fact, he’d flatly refused to discuss his daughter-in-law.
“You never said what the problem was,” she murmured, crumbling the roll in her fingers. Her appetite had evaporated.
Sander sat back, as if his own appetite had disappeared. “She was a restless sort of woman.”
“Restless?”
“She was never satisfied being a wife or mother. She was always . . .”
“What?”
“Looking for more.”
The simple words struck a chord inside Wynter. Not a memory. Or at least not precisely. But a feeling. As if she’d sensed that agitation when she was just a baby.
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